“Marshall!” she commanded. “Do not interrupt me.”
His mouth clamped shut and his ears tinged red.
“One chance.” Mrs. Lancaster held up her index finger and pointed it like a wand.
“Yes, Mrs. Lancaster. I work very—”
“You do not have permission to speak,” she thundered. “Now off with you.”
Francesca darted from the room, relief flooding her. She couldn’t believe it—the disagreeable woman liked her food enough to ask for an introduction to the new cook. And while it hadn’t exactly gone smoothly, she still had her job.
She’d show Mrs. Lancaster she’d made the right choice. Little by little, Francesca would win them all over. She wouldn’t let a little thing like being Italian keep her from what she wanted or what she deserved.
She allowed a small smile to escape as she returned to the warm hearth of the kitchen.
28
After a long day, Alma walked the final blocks home to Orchard Street. The scent of grilled meats and fresh bread mingled with the odor of garbage and fetid water left from a passing shower that had accumulated in the deeply rutted street. A particularly large pack of feral children raced down her block, without shoes, their faces blackened with grime. They tossed a ball and weaved precariously over and around carts stacked with vegetables or housewares, shouting and laughing raucously. She steered clear of them. Innocent passersby often lost their wallets to the little scoundrels, who swooped in like a flock of birds, surrounded the unsuspecting in a cloud of confusion, and flew away, their claws filled with whatever treasure they’d stolen.
On the journey home, Alma mused over the interaction with the commissioner and the way everyone skittered away when he was near. Williams was in the midst of investigating the staff and all of the operations at Ellis Island. And in only a few weeks’ time, he seemed to have made an enemy of himself to all.
To Alma’s annoyance, John Lambert had beaten her to the bierhaus. She didn’t like the idea of her work life invading her home. It was bad enough she spent so many hours of her day there and ruminated on the day’s events until she crept under the covers at night. Visions of her interactions with the immigrants crowded her sleep, their haunted faces imprinted on her memory, the children screaming, the families distraught as they were separated or turned away. But it was the tears of joy when she witnessed a father, brother, or husband lay eyes on their loved ones and welcome them to their new home that affected her most. What had these people endured to be here? At least her work afforded her a credible excuse to avoid the talk of marriage. As long as she contributed to the family, she was safe from her parents’ meddling.
“A beer for you, sir?” Mama rushed to assist John.
“Ja, the largest you have,” he replied in German.
Fritz extended a hand, a smile on his face. “Wilkommen, John. I hear you gave our Alma a job.”
“Yes, your father asked me and I couldn’t say no.” He smiled. “It seems I’ve made the right decision, too. She’s a hard worker, just like I’d expect of a good German girl.”
“I’m glad to hear she’s getting on well there,” Robert said, running a hand over his graying beard.
Alma gritted her teeth, annoyed by the way they discussed her as if she weren’t in the room. They had no regard for how she felt, but it didn’t matter. Her wages had one purpose—to serve the family’s needs. Her needs didn’t factor into the matter. She stewed over her thoughts as a group of men filed into the bierhaus, leaving clods of mud across the polished floor. She studied them, taking in the weariness around their eyes, the hunch of their shoulders. They were Fritz’s friends—the anarchists—all German Americans with their fair skin and full beards.
As they flowed to the bar, they rubbed the spring chill from their hands. The tolerance for anarchists had declined drastically since President McKinley’s death. When Teddy Roosevelt took his place, the police began to crack down on gatherings throughout the city. Alma didn’t like Fritz mixed up in it, but she knew better than to voice her worries, especially in front of his friends, so she busied herself helping Mama with plates. In truth, she should blame her stepfather as much as Fritz. He was the one, after all, who allowed the meetings in his home. He sympathized with them when it suited him, or rather, when it suited his wallet. Robert was nothing if not shrewd with his dollars and cents.
Her stepfather stepped behind the bar and got to work filling steins. “Johanna,” he called out, “is the back room set?”
Mama threw him an exasperated look. He acted as if she hadn’t prepared the room every day for the last sixteen years. “Of course it is, Robert. Invite them in.”
The men removed their hats and tromped to the meeting room in the rear, each cradling a fresh stein frothing at the rim. Alma followed, lighting another lamp and placing it on the table to dispel the gloom in the windowless room.
Robert took a seat beside John and clapped him on the back. “Glad you decided to join us.”
“It’s good to be here,” he said, taking a long pull of beer.
“So how long have you worked at Ellis Island, John?” Fritz asked.
“I started a couple of years before the big fire in 1897. Continued on at Castle Garden while there was construction on the island. We were all glad to see the new station open. It’s much bigger.”
“Castle Garden, you say?” Robert replied. “My father and I came through there many years ago, straight from Düsseldorf. I was just a boy. My mother was sent for, soon after, along with my sisters.”
“I was born in Germany myself.” A shiny spot on the crown of John’s head gleamed in the lamplight. “Came to America when I was a babe.”
Alma silently filled a dozen plates with heaps of boiled potatoes, roast beef with mushroom gravy, and red cabbage. She hoped the crowd would disperse early tonight, give her some time off her feet. She still hadn’t summoned the nerve to tell Mama that she deserved to rest in the evenings as Fritz did, but she knew the answer awaiting her. Her mother would say that she’d worked all day, too, and needed Alma’s help.
Greta set a basket of bread and a pot of mustard on the table. Before she turned, one of the men caught her eye and winked. As her sister’s cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink, Alma wondered if Greta liked the man. He watched Greta go and briefly glanced at Alma. The gleam in his eye faded and he dug into his cabbage. She doubted he could carry on a decent conversation, but if that was the sort of fellow Greta liked, who was she to scoff at her sister’s choices?
“We’re in talks with the labor union again,” Fritz said, bringing all conversation at the table to a halt.
The energy in the room shifted suddenly as all eyes turned to her brother.
“It looks like they’ll continue to hire more immigrants at lower wages,” Fritz went on.